


Making Hats

by Icka M Chif (mischif)



Series: Making Hats [1]
Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischif/pseuds/Icka%20M%20Chif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Movie. He is caught on the letter 'A'. Absolution, anger, absence, angst, arrogance, apathy, abandoned, alone...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Hats

**Author's Note:**

> Less than 12 hours of seeing the movie, and we have fic written. Think that may be a new personal record. Thanks to Kitesareevil for the Beta.

  
Tarrant is mad.  
It is one thing to be mad and another thing to know that one is mad and there is nothing one can do for it.  
He is mad over Alice.  
Alice is not here.  
Even sweet Mallymkun the Dormouse is no help when this sad realisation sinks into his brain, sending him off on strings of words, stuck in a thought.  
He is caught on the letter 'A'. Absolution, anger, absence, angst, arrogance, apathy, abandoned, alone...  
He throws himself into his work. He makes hats. Tarrant is a Hatter after all. '_This above all, to thine own self be true_' and all that.  
He makes big hats, small hats, rounds hats, flat hats, red hats, white hats, blue hats…  
He makes bonnets, bowlers, bicorns, tricorns, capotain, archer, kausia, bandeau, bergère, montera, pileus, Phrygian, fezzes...  
He imagines Alice there, talking to him as he makes his hats. She's his muse, his guide, his inspiration. He imagines her wearing them, designs them for her, but they're wrong. Wrong, wrong, not right, not quite yet.  
But he will figure it out. The perfect hat for Alice. His Alice.  
She's there when he closes his eyes, he sees her when he opens them. Smiling that queer little smile. 'You're not real', she whispers. 'You're all just a part of my dream.'  
'You'd have to be at least half mad to dream someone like me up,' he had responded.  
'Yes.'  
He is mad.  
But then they're all a bit mad around here.  
He sees her one day, sitting in the corner of his workshop, just watching him with her small curved little smile. He smiles back and chatters at her, explaining the latest hats. The March Hare requires a new hat, he's made a new one for the Dormouse who he hasn't seen in a long quite, not since Mallymkun wandered off in a huff. This one is for Bayard, and that was for the Cheshire Cat as payment for saving his life, and he's thinking about making some for the Pawns, what does she think?  
Alice laughs. "I think you're mad." She says fondly and the words wash over him like a warm breeze.  
Of course he's mad. He's Tarrant Hightopp, the Mad Hatter. The last surviving member of his clan. "Tell me." He asks, smiling in return. "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"  
She tilts her head, long blond hair draping over her shoulder. "I give up." Alice says. "What's the answer?"  
He leans forward, conspiratorially. "I haven't the slightest idea." He confesses, as if telling her a great secret. He ruins it slightly by giggling.  
She laughs, a girlish giggle, almost like she had the first time he'd seen her. It's older now, but undeniably Alice.  
"I'll tell you a secret." She leans forward and whispers. He moves closer. He likes secrets. She plucks a thimble off his finger and put it on hers, holding it up so he can see it, close enough that it almost touches her soft round lips. "I've missed you."  
He blinks, staring at her. She's never done that before.  
"Hatter?" Alice tilts her head at him, her face furrowed in concern. She puts her other hand on his arm and he looks down at it.  
He can feel her hand through the layers of fabric. Curious, he touches her hand, carefully. She is warm. Solid.  
Real.  
"You are here." Tarrant says dumbly.  
"Of course." Alice says plainly. She wanted to come back.  
She is here. Not a figment of his mad imagination.  
"Wait right here." He blurts, then dashes off, her hand falling away from his arm. It's a minor pain, the loss of contact, but it is a minor thing with the rush of joy filling his senses.  
He tears through his hats, sending them flying. Now that he sees her, he knows the perfect hat for her. Not the ruffles, the frills, the lace, or flowers. No, not for his Alice.  
Down at the bottom he finds it. Picking it up, he examines it in his hands. He bites his lower lip, worried for a moment, then turns on his heel to face her, hiding the object behind his back.  
Alice is still sitting where he last saw her, her head tilted to the side as she watches him. His thimble is still on her finger.  
"For you." He says, striding forward. As if sensing his intention, she sits up straight, staring at him with fearless, wise dark eyes for a moment, before she closes them.  
He gives a small sigh of relief, then pulls his present to her out from behind his back before carefully lowering it onto her head. It doesn't rest on her forehead, but tilts back, accentuating the curve of the back of her skull. Her long tousled hair flutters around the front of it, nearly obscuring it entirely, tumbling around it without a care.  
But he knows it is there.  
"Perfect." He murmurs, stepping back. She opens her eyes, staring at him for a moment and he takes in the effect. Then he remembers that she herself cannot see and gropes for a mirror, knocking more hats over in his haste.  
She tilts her head to the side, touching the smooth edge of what he has made for her. It is a round unadorned band of polished silver, a coronet.  
Above all others, she is worthy to wear one. She is not Queen, but here in Underland, she is Royalty.  
"Hatter...." She whispers, her voice soft in affection and awe.  
More 'A' words. Adornment. Adulation. Adoration.  
She takes his hand in hers, giving it a squeeze and he has to close his eyes for a moment, drinking her in. She smells like oceans, salt air and exotic spices for some reason.  
"Thank you." She murmurs. Alice doesn't thank anyone. It doesn't sound like gratitude falling from her lips, but something deeper, richer.  
Something like how her name falls from his lips. More 'A' words. Admiration. Attraction. Amore.  
He smiles back, fidgeting slightly with nervousness. It feels as if burbling flowers have taken root in his liver.  
"You are here?" Tarrant inquires, holding a hand out to her. "To stay?"  
She takes it, clasping his hand in hers. "Yes." She smiles at him. It's a little bit mad.  
He smiles back.  
They are all mad here.  
But the company is good.  
-fin-

* * *

  
_Quotes, allusions and thanks to Burton's Alice movie, William Shakespeare's Hamlet, and J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan._


End file.
